True enough, probably. But how does it go for master songwriters like Kristofferson? What happens to the creativity that burned decades ago, ignited a career that landed him in the Country Music Hall of Fame and spurred landmark compositions such as “Me and Bobby McGee,” “Help Me Make It Through The Night,” and “Sunday Morning Coming Down”?

“It’s like sex,” says Kristofferson, 76.

Uh, yeah.

“Yeah, it don’t happen as often, but it still feels as good,” he says. “The songs take a lot longer now, but writing one feels the same as it did when I was 32.”

This coming week, Kristofferson will release his latest collection of songs, the Don Was-produced “Feeling Mortal.” It’s a reflective and unflinching 10-song set that finds Kristofferson looking back on a most remarkable life.

His legs and reflexes seem fully intact, though some of his old friends — Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Stephen Bruton and Shel Silverstein among them — are gone now. Freed from the addictions and turmoil that were dangerous distractions in the 1970s and ’80s, Kristofferson’s outlook now tends toward gratitude, though the album’s opening lines are the worrying kind:

“Wide awake and feeling mortal at this moment in the dream,” he sings. “That old man there in the mirror, and my shaky self-esteem.”

That’s all true, all real. Through a life marked by triumph — superb athlete, Rhodes Scholar, admirable military service, published short stories in “Atlantic Monthly” before he was old enough to rent a car, then gave all that up to help change the linguistic and thematic possibilities of country music ... oh, and he’s a celebrated movie actor, too — Kristofferson’s self-esteem has never been off the charts.

Tell him how great he is and he’ll grumble. Trust me, I know. As for the “old man” part, 76 is what it is: Closer to the end than to the beginning.

“You can’t help but think about it,” he says. “It’s a brief time we’ve got here. The thing that’s surprising to me is actually how good I feel. I’m not depressed that it’s going to be over, I’m grateful for how wonderful it’s been.”

To that end, he sings, “Soon or later I’ll be leaving/ I’m a winner either way/ For the laughter and the loving, that I’m living with today.”

That’s a good way to look at it, which is unsurprising, given the looker in question. All his life, Kristofferson has been seeing many of the same things we all see, then delivering far-from-usual responses to those things.

Creativity wins out

Offered an appointment to teach at West Point and keep himself on a shining military track that could have ultimately landed him high-political office (He’s said that his parents figured he’d at least wind up as Secretary of State), Kristofferson saw a creative dead-end, and he headed to Nashville to become an impoverished songwriter.

Offered a dirty job cleaning up at Columbia studios, Kristofferson saw a way to be around heroes like Cash and Bob Dylan. And how many thousands of high school essays about freedom were written before Kristofferson looked at the term and explained to us, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”?

Kristofferson also has looked at recording, touring and film success and seen these things as tools to help change people’s minds or bring hard truths to attention. His works have never been about keeping the customer satisfied, and he’s alienated some listeners and ticket-buyers with outspoken — though always long-considered — opinions on politics and foreign policy.

The list of Country Music Hall of Famers who’ve written songs in support of, for instance, Jesse Jackson and Sinead O’Connor is ... well, it isn’t a list. It’s that old man there in the mirror.

“I’m glad I wasn’t afraid to tell the truth.” he says.

So very grateful

Last year, I traveled to see Kristofferson in Chattanooga, and stood side-stage to watch and listen. There, his wife, Lisa, showed me a photo she’d taken the previous night in Louisville. The picture was of a man in a wheelchair, sitting stage-left, watching and listening while Kristofferson stood and sang.

That man used to be a Golden Gloves boxer himself. His name is Muhammad Ali, and Parkinson’s syndrome has left the brash and fierce boxer trembling and quiet.

He and Kristofferson are good buddies.

“I’m so grateful — there’s that word again — that I got to be as close to him as I have,” Kristofferson says.

“He’s an amazing person. Such courage. He had God-given gifts and used them in the right way, with a simplicity and an honestly. He’s gone from being the most graceful, physically gifted human being on the planet to being in that chair. What’s surprising is his attitude when his gifts, those unmatched gifts, were taken away from him. He’s never felt sorry for himself. He’s just a totally giving person.”

So the thing about the legs, then the reflexes, then the friends isn’t set in stone. At least not for a couple of gracious fighter-poets who feel mortal but have achieved something along the lines of permanence.